I want to write something. But nothing hard. Not the queue of difficult posts that jostle in my pocket each day. Bodhi's birth story, things from counselling, the need to rock in a corner and wail and wail out the tears that keep welling up against my will, that elephant post for some reason, not being able to write about my marriage. None of them.
I want to write something beautiful, poetic, with twists and turns, alliterative and assonantal, enigmatic and charming, new.
But I'm fucked if I know what.
I'm fighting the confessional urge, the thing that for some reason makes me feel the need to tell every foible and fuck up, every horror and fear. My weight and date of birth.
Why? I don't know. Because otherwise they feel like secrets, maybe. I never had any truck with them, with not telling.
But I'll be content with this: despite having given up wheat yesterday, I seem to be suffering from terrible Trapped Wind.
6 comments:
You've written many pieces that are all those already. They will come again.
A few poetic confessions would be good. But weight and date of birth will do. I'll tell if you will.
That's after you've got the trapped wind sorted of course. I find a few deep breaths sometimes does the trick.
Every blogger has their own style. Some revel in over-sharing and others like to remain inscrutable and mysterious. It takes time to find the balance and I can't say I've always got it right. I have enjoyed trying though.
Oooooh trapped wind, sounds ouchy. I haven't suffered that since pregnancy, it's such an odd feeling. You have my sympathies.
Jesus, er, thanks for the concern but there's really no need to discuss my wind in depth!
All is well.
On that too, not the wind, the other, you could private blog?
Thanks for the info! We're making a custom pair of slippers for you :)” oh wow thank you!!
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